


Sibling Rivalry

by PsychGirl (snycock), tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comedy, Crack, M/M, Parody, Post-Season/Series 04, the only sane way to cope with s4 is to make fun of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 04:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: In which tea is drunk, new feet are admired, and John finds out more than he ever wanted to know about the Holmes family.





	Sibling Rivalry

**Author's Note:**

> Another amusing interlude from the people who brought you [Mile High Club](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057655). Because, really, the best way to deal with season 4 is to make fun of it.

John scooped tea into the warmed teapot, inhaling the familiar, verdant scent. It was almost strong enough to drown out the odor of smoke that still clung to the flat, in spite of all the repairs. The kettle shut off and he filled the teapot, listening with half an ear to the conversation in the other room. 

“You know what happened to the _other_ other one,” Mycroft said ominously. 

“Quite. I was there, remember?” Sherlock replied.

“Excuse me, what?” John asked, stepping in from the kitchen, tea tray in his hands. He put it down on the coffee table and frowned at Sherlock, who was sitting in his leather chair by the fire, hands clasped in front of his mouth. 

“John,” Mycroft said, smiling thinly. “How are your feet?”

“Yeah, good,” he said, glancing down at the new prosthetics. “Tea?”

“Three cubes of sugar, if you don't mind,” Mycroft said as he uncomfortably perched on one of the chairs borrowed from the kitchen.

John poured, glaring, and then thrust the cup at him – black, unsweetened. Half of the tea spilled over the edge of the cup, three droplets landing on the cuff of Mycroft’s impeccable, crisp white shirt. He gave a John a sickly smile and took a noisy sip from the saucer.

“Now, what's this about?” John prompted, as he poured a cup for Sherlock.

“Oh, nothing to wor—” Mycroft began.

“Our secret brother,” Sherlock interrupted. “James. He was always the most difficult of us. Well, except for Eurus, of course.”

“Riiiiight,” John said, the teacup clattering against its saucer as he fought the urge to throw it at Sherlock. “First, you have a secret sister. Now, it's a secret brother, as well? You can't expect me to believe this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Why would I lie?”

John sighed and poured himself a cup, adding cream and sugar. “So, his name was James? Not something weird? Like Mycroft, Sherlock, or Eurus?”

“Oh, well,” Sherlock shrugged. “He liked to be called Moriarty. We think it gave him a complex to have a normal name, like the others.”

“Hardly,” Mycroft drawled. “ _You_ think that.”

John blinked, looking from Sherlock to Mycroft, then back at Sherlock. “The man that tried to kill you. That forced you to jump off a building. That man is your brother?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Oh yes. He's been trying to kill me since he was a toddler.”

“He what?!” John choked out. The saucer in his hand tilted sideways, the teacup sliding to the edge and then over, tumbling to the carpet in slow motion. “You've _got_ to be _kidding_.”

“Well, Greg never believed it, either,” Mycroft remarked. “But James _was_ his favorite.”

“Greg?”

“Is it Greg?” Sherlock murmured, brows knitting together. “I thought it was Gavin.”

“Let me guess,” John said, a look of long-suffering creasing his brow. “Greg Lestrade is your brother now, too, suddenly, out of nowhere?”

“Not suddenly, out of nowhere,” Sherlock said peevishly. “He's always been. Half-brother, to be exact. One of father's indiscretions. His mother was the D.I. that investigated James' first murder.”

“Oh,” Mycroft hummed. “Poor Carl. Unnamed son of the Holmes family. If Mummy hadn't foisted him off to school before James had a chance to reconcile with him over the Legos, he might still be alive today.”

“Carl might actually have been my favorite brother,” Sherlock commented, raising his eyes to look off into the distance. “I wish I had told him, but I was too busy investigating James and harassing D.I. Lestrade about the case.” He turned to look at John. “Of course, we had to pay off the D.I. to conceal the familial connection. Gossip at the country club was already getting bad enough regarding Mummy and Burton Powers.”

Mycroft grimaced. “All you rotten little beasts, with your mess and noise. It was all that Greg, Sally, and I could do to manage you.”

“It was all Molly's doing,” Sherlock retorted. “ _She_ dared James to commit the perfect murder.”

“She was quite the morbid child,” Mycroft said stiffly.

John sat down abruptly in his chair. “Molly Hooper?” he squeaked.

“It was all in jest, of course,” Sherlock said quickly. “She's not psychopathic in the least. She was talking about murdering the dolls in the dollhouse.”

“But...” John started. “I thought… I could have sworn….”

“Yes?” Sherlock raised one eyebrow. 

“I could have sworn she had a crush on you...” he finished feebly, having the grace to look properly embarrassed by the end of that sentence.

“Oh, she's always looked up to me,” Sherlock said airily. “I expect that's why she went into the forensic sciences.”

“And you mentioned a sister named Sally?” John asked. “As in-”

“Donovan,” Sherlock muttered. “She's been calling me a freak ever since I ate three sticks of butter in one go at Christmas dinner.”

“Anderson's fault,” Mycroft added. “A well-timed dare.”

“He was our brother-in-law,” Sherlock amended quickly, catching John's expression. “Ex-brother-in-law now.”

“It's quite remarkable how they got on better _after_ the divorce,” Mycroft commented.

“Don't remind me,” Sherlock said, shuddering. He rose to throw another log onto the fire. “Are you all right, John? You look ill.”

“I'm fine,” John said abruptly, narrowing his eyes. “So. Molly Hooper. Sally Donovan. Greg Lestrade. James Moriarty. _Carl Powers_. I'm supposed to believe they're all your siblings?”

“Some of them half-siblings,” Mycroft corrected. “Though we scarcely made the distinction.”

“Right.” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay.”

“ _Think_ , John,” Sherlock insisted. “You see but, as ever, you do not observe. Clearly, we both grew up in a large family.”

“You're referring to your misanthropic tendencies?” John asked, hazarding a guess.

“No!” Sherlock snapped, exasperated. “We spent our childhoods crammed into bunkbed-outfitted rooms at the other end of Musgrave Hall from Mummy and Daddy's room. Mycroft got so much practice running the Holmes family that he ended up _becoming_ the British Government. And I was the middle brother who had no choice but to act as liaison between the older contingent of arrogant prats that I have the burden of calling siblings, and the younger collection of snot-faced, grimy miscreants that I was expected to keep in line. Can you not see why I chose to isolate myself from society and devote my considerable multi-tasking skills to the pursuit of science?”

“And you expected me to deduce that how?” John asked, crossing his arms.

“Mycroft uses a half-Windsor knot for his solid-color 100% silk ties,” Sherlock scoffed. “That _screams_ pompous git of a brother accustomed to the privilege afforded to him by the highest position in the family. I wear bespoke suits and yet most of the time I am lounging about the house in old pajamas and a worn dressing gown. Obviously, that implies that I still feel the need to maintain a balance between what was considered proper behavior by my older siblings, and the chaos favored by the younger.”

“Obviously,” John said drily. “Anybody else I should know about?”

“Did you tell him about Irene?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh, um,” Sherlock flushed, avoiding John's eyes. “Er, I hope you understand why I didn't tell you, John. I just- it was already strange enough. You seeing my sister. Like that. I wanted to tell you so many times!”

John clenched his fists. His cheeks were flushed bright red, making him look like a kettle about to boil. “What. The. _Fuck_. I've been jealous of her all this time, and you couldn't have told me? Couldn’t have assured me that she wasn't a threat in the slightest?!”

“I told you that girlfriends weren’t my area.”

“Mentioning that she was your sister, at any point, would have been a bit clearer!”

“I would have thought our activities last night would have straightened out – so to speak – any misunderstandings about that,” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft frowned. “Excuse me-” he interrupted. He looked a bit green. “Am I to understand that you - that is to say -”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, not taking his eyes from John’s face.

“You… and John….”

“Yes,” John said tersely.

“You… you are…”

“Yes. It has to do with sex,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “Quite frequently and vigorously-”

“Oh God,” John said, looking at Mycroft’s face. He sank back into his chair, his face deathly pale.

“I don't remember you being shy about it last night, John,” Sherlock protested. “You're squandering an excellent opportunity to mortify Mycroft.”

“That's not what I'm worried about,” John said weakly.

Sherlock turned, squinting as he noted Mycroft's sickly green pallor.

“There's something you should know...” Mycroft began, then swallowed hard, as if trying to convince himself not to retch.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. There was a rushing sound in his ears, drowning out Mycroft's voice. His chest felt tight and he was dizzy. He and John had just watched _The Star Wars_. He wondered dimly if this was what Luke Skywalker had felt upon the revelation that Leia was-

“-your sister,” Mycroft said.

John was sprawled completely back in his chair, both hands over his face. “Oh, thank _God_!” 

“Wait!” Sherlock cried. “What did I miss? What?”

“Mary!” John shouted hysterically. “Mary _fucking_ Morstan was your sister! Which means that I've been shagging my brother-in-law! Bloody fantastic!”

Sherlock exhaled, relief flooding his limbs. Then he snapped his head around to look at Mycroft. “Mary _Morstan_ was our _sister_?”

Mycroft was blotting his forehead with his pocket square. “Another of Father’s little indiscretions. I’m not surprised you didn’t know. It came to light when you were living with Grandmere.” He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock as he placed the cloth back in his breast pocket. “Did you think _John_ -”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock said quickly, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.

“Is everything all right up here, boys?” Mrs. Hudson peeked into the room, her smile souring at the sight of Mycroft.

John turned in his chair, staring at her blankly. He jabbed a thumb in her direction and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Let me guess, is _she_ your sister?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Mycroft snorted. “She's our aunt.”


End file.
